The Mad March Moomin

After a short winter break, the birthday season has popped its expensive head out from between my thighs once again. The first out of hibernation was the Snork Maiden. She travelled all the way from Moominvalley, down to the riverside and beckoned us all to celebrate the anniversary of her existence by entering The Fish.

I was a little late for the fishy fun, as I was stuck at work, getting in the party mood by listening to lots of Mew-style Danepop. Little My had been felled by another bout of sick, so I was left to fend off the Scandinavian troll-browsers and idiot card machine on my own.

Once the pressie ripping frenzy had abated we left the warm, comforting bowels of the aquatic being and retired to enjoy lashings of Moomintroll Marmite on Mickey Mouse toast and a spot of Jay Aston. Then, with very little prior warning, Snufkin got all exited and began to give poor Sniff a generous buffalo lap-stance. This was not my first experience of birthday lap dancing, but 'twas by far the most disturbing, not least because my brother was the exotically erotic strip-monger. Judge for yourself, as Fillyjonk has helpfully displayed the arousing event for all the world to see.


Now to bed, as I have important Glasto ticket buying business to attend to in the cold, early morning.

Stimulating The Curry Garden

"The best cosmetic is great-looking skin", so says philosophy.com, the world renowned, intellectual website for philosophers who like to be fragrant & take care of their 'make-up optional' dermis sheath. They are, of course, wrong. The best cosmetic is the wet, dripping cheese of life, and I am here to help you navigate its narrow, Swiss alleys.

Cast off the shackles of Deal Or No Deal's bigotry, Noel Edmond's racist waist, Miss Dynamiteehee's righteous sexual innuendos and embrace the nutty goodness of my yellow, ever-curdling, milky fun.

It has been suggested that I might like to go and watch Jason Donovan while he prances around in nothing but his spangly dreamcoat at the Southampton Guildhall at some point in the not too distant future. Let me tell you, in a rather convoluted Eurovision-style way, why that would be oh so wrong. As you may have heard in the legends of yore, there are several types of cheese; not all of them are as good and wholesome as the over-ripe, warm & runny Brie of Dancing On Ice, glistening in the sunlight and lovingly left on the radiator overnight to accentuate the strong, cheesy flavour.

Hello Reykjavík, this is Skopje calling, here are the cheesy results from the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonian jury:
Gorganzola- Aged, mature, a bit smelly and of Italian descent. Who could it be but good old, crusty old Madonna? Dix points.
A good hard Cheddar- Reliable, right-wing, a bit common, ubiquitous a few years ago, but a little passée now. Welcome back to the Spice Girls. Un point.
Jarlsberg- Scandinavian, sweet with a brightly coloured rind & large, irregular holes. Yes, it's Abba. Douze points!
Boursin- Soft & pretty, wrapped in shiny foil with a garlic after-taste. The international cheese ambassador, Kylie. Douze points, aussi!
The Laughing Cow- Ann Widdecombe. Nil points.

I would liken Mr Donovan to an unwanted Christmas present of icky, salty, blue (for cheesus sake) Stilton. One that has been cast aside in the frenzy of wrapping paper ripping. One that has fallen miserably behind the settee and left to rot and ooze and grow grey, fuzzy mould on top of its very own blue, squishy, pre-existing mould until at least mid July. That is how looking into the lifeless, balding eyes of Jason Donovan would taste.

So very wrong.

Takes One To Know One

A superior evening's avid televidi-ing threw up a large arousal of precious wisdom pearls: 'Dragon's Den' took us "from Hot Jerk Sauce..." (some kind of masturbatory porn?) "... to a children's school" and from then on I couldn't rip my bleeding eyes from the screen.

Next up was 'Freaky Eaters', where we met Debbie, a regular at the Kensington Groin Club. The matronly presenter informed us that she "looks good from the front, but go round the back & it's all scaffolding & plywood. Debbie's façade is already showing signs of wear & tear". Her friends like to think of her "sucking the bone" (provided by KFC) at her local pub, (wait for it) 'The Cock'!!! Her favourite tipple can be supped directly from The Cock. She loves The Cock. Whenever she feels lonely, she dives straight for The Cock. She can't keep away from The Cock. She likes nothing better than to spend all day slurping at The Cock. Ahh, hours of fun.

I have run out of cock material, so I will just leave you with a thought provoking exchange from the closing minutes of this insightful piece of theatre:

"I'm just going to turn your dough out for you. You can be quite firm with it. You're in control of what you put in your body."

"She ain't got a scoobie."

Apologies for the substandard quality of this particular blog, but I have been ordered to finish it in time for lunch and my deadline is fast approaching. So there.

The Invisible Bell

I did not realise so many people could be confused by the round, button shaped object placed carefully on most front doors of properties in this fair & smelly land of ours. Maybe they mistrust it as magic, maybe they've pressed one before and were surprised by the unearthly noise that resulted. Maybe nothing good can come from disturbing a small piece of plastic with your precious fingers, or maybe, just maybe it would be better to give it a try than to barge straight in, or drop a note through the letter box and bugger off.

Just yesterday morning, two such frightened creatures passed by my front opening. The first, the legendary Yerghvonne from the letting agents, decided to ignore our wondrous bell machine. She just gave a slight tap on the door, unlocked it and walked in, shouting "I did knock!" all within one precious second of her earth-time. She then explained that she wanted to inspect our darkest crevices, "We did send a letter, though it might've been to the wrong address" she bleated, before we threw her into the street, like a surging & excessively strong, spinning Jennie.

The next hapless stranger was our postman with a rather substantial package (to deliver, not in his trousers). This time, no bell, for that would be ridiculous, no knock, for that way lies madness, just a clink of the letterbox & a lovely little note to apologise for not catching us at home, even though we were at home! I ran out into the cold, cold street in nothing but my slippers and rather dapper dressing gown, flapping in the breeze. But he had already left this plane of existence and I could do nothing but to sob gently into my increasingly soggy Weetabix.

On a more cheery note, it's nice to see that the BBC have decided to celebrate four glorious years of war in Iraq with a nice little logo. If nothing else we can say that it has been truly worth it, just for this extraordinary piece of graphic design.


Currently listening: The Deep Blue by Charlotte Hatherly

Tora! Tora! Tora!

Just as we least expected it, a weekend of drunken debauchery, Abba The Movie & rampant Frida ogling was brought to an abrupt end late last night. The wind was whistling through the rustling lampposts, the local wildlife were picking through the remnants of fallen kebab. We had sacrificed both 'Dancing On Ice' & 'Making Your Mind Up' at the altar of booze. The scene was set for a relaxing 30 second amble home from the pub, but as we rounded the corner, our paths were crossed with scum. Glaze-eyed & mouth-foamy as they were, Rat-Boy & his appendage seemed to take exception to the style of our eyebrows and suddenly proceeded to release wave after wave of high-pitched noise & flailing fists.

Hoorah, my first proper fight had begun; although it wasn't a really a proper fight, more of a slow-motion skirmish with commercial breaks. But still. You can't take it away from me. Please don't take it away from me. No, I beg you, just leave me with this one small glimmer of fight.

Another set of assailants emerged from our right flank and adjusted their Burberry, before joining in the fun. My little kangaroo jig failed to lighten the mood and I was rewarded with a sovereign-ring-assisted bloody nose for my effort. There was lots of shrugging & staring in disbelief in between the bouts of hair pulling & nipple tweaking. All too soon it was over. The rozzers were called, but they just marched on past us and towards a more juicy conflict around the corner.

So we scarpered for home in order to enjoy some hot, sweet tea; lukewarm, sweet cider; soothing Guinness Marmite, in honour of St. Paddy; and a debriefing session to debate the merits of our evening's tactics, until the sinister lure of Abba & Bagpuss could be resisted no longer.

This morning, whilst catering to the whims of misbegotten offspring, hoping a can of tramp juice would suffice as a gift for their most holy mothers, we encountered the remnants of last night's opponents. They were strangely unwilling to acknowledge our existence, short of a quick expletive or two, and waddled off down the street with our hollow, empty laughter ringing through their hollow, empty heads.


Currently listening: If The Ocean Gets Rough by Willy Mason

A Tribute To My Fabulous Willy

I will resist the temptation to unleash any more knob gags. If you haven't been keeping up with recent news events, the eponymous Willy is none other than Crufts' Best In Show. But this is not about that overly-coiffured canine, this is a week of remembrance for the loss of our family dog, Brammy. His brother, Timmy, is thankfully still going strong, but he's not stupid. Getting him to the vets for a check-up was an ordeal. He made such a fuss, we couldn't get him through the front door.

He knows.

Sitting at work, as Mr Fuckley fumbles his way to the counter with his armfuls of wine, his horrifically stained shirt tucked into his greying y-fronts; my preconceived notion, that dogs are more fun to be around than people, is firmly reinforced. Yes, they may bring on bouts of convulsive sneezing, but then so do excessively frangranced humans; and that bloke with the fungus fingernails & the Advocat beard, who also brings with him an ability to make the strongest stomachs spontaneously release their contents.

So, raise a glass to the lickiest, silliest, friendliest, laziest & most missed dog in the world:

Bramwell Smith 1999-2007.

London In My Nose

"I'm wiped, I'm so tired."

So sang Kristin Hersh last night, and I wholeheartedly concur. Although, in the same song she also provided this pearl of wisdom, "Your guitar's a race car, sex is your best friend." Obviously a little less accurate, in my case.

My grand tour of 3 gigs in 3 cities in 3 days (two of which were school nights) is now over and I'm left with a large hole in my wallet, a slightly nauseous feeling in my navel, the constant yappy dog yipping of coach indicators ringing in my saddlebags and a mind full of half remembered tunes. I feel as if I have been burning a strange shaped candle at all twelve of its ends and my inner cylon is sexily telling me that it's time to sleep.

But the unstoppable torrent of post pay day packages are clogging up the stairwell and I cannot rest until each and every one is ripped open in a rabid frenzy, oohed & ahhed over and assimilated into my waning consciousness. Unique badges must be placed about my person, Mr. "I'm Free" Humphries must be mourned and the rest of London must be blown from my nasal cavities. A slackers work is never done. Literally.


Currently listening: Neon Bible by Arcade Fire

Honey-Badger Me

Thrush?

No.

Well, how about anticipating a relaxing evening's moss gathering and feet settling in front of a nice, roaring telly. But nay! I hear the call of Cathy Dennis & Hockbo badgering me into flying the nest, towards the hungry, waiting face-on-a-t-shirt belonging to the Pure Reason Revolutionaries.

The time: last night. The place: The Joiner's Arms, Southampton. John Stappleton was nowhere to be found. It all began with an exhausting dash down the rain messed streets of St. Mary's, like wading through a nine year old's recently soiled nappy, to obtain cash & pills. Then, a sip of substandard beer and a chat with the badge lady before Joey Nightmare appeared on stage. Despite possessing the stage presence of a tramp fighting off a plague of lotion resistant mind-nits and the collection of dance moves from the 'if Debbie Harry was your mum' school of performing arts, I gradually warmed to the front woman's flailing and the band's spiky disco stylings. Enough to drop some money in their metaphorical hat later in the evening, in exchange for a shiny disc of nice.

The next gaggle of guitar wielding gentlemen sounded like a less relevant (do you see?) and less fit (in the third sense) Red Hot Chili Peppers, and looked like a mutant, trainee biker gang. They owned a much less successful front woman, and not just because he wasn't a woman. Echobeat (they were neither) was their unfortunate name, in case you are misguided enough to be interested. Next!

Hear me now! The atmosphere was hotting up, resulting in increasingly manic & embarrassing behaviour. OOh, look, she's walking through the audience. I have your face on a t shirt! Shhh, I... must... dance! I was rather disappointed by the appearance of last year's hair. I would like to put in a request for a new hairdo for each new gig, please. I was now getting so excited my undandy scarf became entangled in my dandy watch strap and could only be freed by a rip-roaring session of urban girl nudging. The rapture was complete once our idols began teasing a pleasing string of noise from their equipment as we stamped our thighs in appreciation and then finally exploded with a burst of bright, wet light.


Currently listening: Jim Moray by Jim Moray

Total Eclipse Of My Arse

Apologies for the break in transmission. We are currently experiencing interference caused by an extended convalescence from a common cold and accompanying breasty cough. Peering through my bleary snot-haze I detect that, presumably due to some non specific trowel-based calamity, Rosemary & Thyme have fingered their last liver spotted murderer, after filling my screen for an entire, agonising, pub-free weekend. It makes me long for the days before baked beans could dance, Halifax cashiers weren't incessantly breaking into song and when Harry Potter wasn't constantly getting his kit off and waving it in your face.

My one refuge away from all this (in addition to the horrifying sight of Take That unexpectedly invading the cosy world of Dancing On Ice) was to be found in New Milton, where I could infect the aged population with my many bacteria, both good & bad, to my heart's unfettered, gleeful content. As well as ogling the bony arses of the elderly as they squirmed & squelched in their firm seats, I was also there to spy on the acoustic antics of The Oyster Band.

We kept the Lymington contingent waiting for their supper, as we scoured the dusty streets for a space with which to halt our journey and leave behind our exhaust-breathing, round-legged steed in a safe spot where it wouldn't be untethered by beings who were not of our own. We ventured inside and were shown to our creaking seats, passing by row upon row of dessicated inhabitants. There was less movement than expected, but a ripple of gentle applause and a surprise drop of Ringwood beer kept our numbing rear ends entertained. Folky treats reigned supreme for many minutes, until I was ripped from the evil, paper stealing company of Davey & Charliebo by an impatient, snarky chariot.

The next weekend was spent on the run under cover of the dull red moon, successfully aping the exploits of the Jaffa Cake, and hiding us from our would-be captor. Our futile escapade drew us further and further away from our intended destination and towards the inevitable, gaping, black hole of Kylie.


Currently listening: The Dark Third by Pure Reason Revolution